


fall into each other

by darlingofdots



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Fluff, Harrow the Ninth Spoilers (Locked Tomb Trilogy), I apparently specialise in Rare Threesomes, Multi, Oral Sex, Threesome - F/M/M, in the bubble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28129134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingofdots/pseuds/darlingofdots
Summary: “Ortus,” she said, putting her own cup back on its saucer with a discordant clink. “Sometimes, when we want something, we need to ask for it.”“My lady?” He blinked at her in genuine bewilderment. There was always something sad in his eyes, dark as they were, like the vastness of space.She leaned forward. “But asking is so hard, isn’t it? So instead, we wait for someone else to offer.” She stole a sideways glance at her husband, who smiled at her. She tugged at the ends of her sleeves. “This is us, offering.”Ortus gets an offer.
Relationships: Abigail Pent/Magnus Quinn/Ortus Nigenad
Comments: 11
Kudos: 40





	fall into each other

Sometimes, Abigail thought, you had to just get over yourself and do things. Canaan House, or whatever fabricated simulacrum of Canaan House they had somehow ended up in, was cold and getting colder, the Reverend Daughter with her retinue of wailing ghosts had stalked off into the depths of the Facility looking for some kind of answer that Abigail was fairly sure she was not going to find. She had not quite unravelled all the threads of what was happening, yet, but the picture was forming in her mind and it was frightening, yes, but there was relief in that, too, and a little bit of recklessness.

Recklessness such as inviting the Ninth swordsman, whom she could not bring herself to think of as the Ninth cavalier, up to their damp quarters under the false pretence of needing someone to help board up the window against the cold, and then keep him there under the even more false pretence of hot coffee. Ortus was perched on the parlour chair as though he was afraid to break it, taking minuscule sips from a chipped cup which he held delicately in his big soft hands. He was reciting poetry again, with that soft rhythmic voice of his that was such a contrast to his necromancer’s. Magnus listened intently, enraptured, but Abigail could not quite focus on the story; she waited for him to pause for another halting sip of coffee.

“Ortus,” she said, putting her own cup back on its saucer with a discordant clink. “Sometimes, when we want something, we need to ask for it.”

“My lady?” He blinked at her in genuine bewilderment. There was always something sad in his eyes, dark as they were, like the vastness of space.

She leaned forward. “But asking is so hard, isn’t it? So instead, we wait for someone else to offer.” She stole a sideways glance at her husband, who smiled at her. She tugged at the ends of her sleeves. “This is us, offering.”

And she kissed the corner of his mouth, carefully calibrated to let him retreat if he wished. He did not retreat, although he was clearly taken aback and did not know what to do or say; his hand twitched the way she had noticed it did when he reached for his pen and flimsy but thought better of it halfway through the movement, except he was not reaching for his pockets now. When Abigail did not move, just sat close enough to feel their breath mingle and the warmth that always radiated from him even in the freezing cold, Ortus raised his hand to cup her cheek, so lightly, like he was cradling a baby bird in his palm, and closed the space between them for the merest ghost of a kiss in return.

“I do not mean to intrude,” he said, eyes downcast.

“Nonsense, old chap,” Magnus said from where he suddenly stood at his wife’s shoulder. “We are offering.”

“You don’t have to accept,” Abigail said, straightening. “It’s a question, not a command.”

This, too, was clearly something Ortus the Ninth was not accustomed to; it was hard to tell if he was blushing underneath all that paint, but his face took on that expression of slightly terrified awe that Abigail had not seen on a prospective lover in years, and she found it terribly endearing.

“Only two conditions,” she said, tapping the tips of two fingers in succession. “One, you say no when you want to say no. Two, you wash the paint off first.”

The latter turned out to be easier than expected; the real difficulty turned out to be the fact that it was too damned cold to take any more clothes off than absolutely necessary. The process of removing her boots and thick, fleece-lined leggings and underwear but leaving on woollen socks and calf-length skirt was not how Abigail’s usual preferred seduction technique, but she drew the line at risking even a metaphysical approximation of frostbite, and neither of them seemed to mind. After some fumbling about on all sides she found herself leaning back against her husband’s chest, her wrists clasped tightly in his hands while he kissed her fingers and calmly but firmly gave instructions to Ortus, who was applying his talents to something other than poetry, with arguably more success.

At first, there was something too much like reverence in the way his dark eyes looked up at her, too much like worship, and it distracted her to worry about this. But then Magnus, the fiend, that beautiful, horrible man, betrayed her secrets to the swordsman of the Ninth and unwound her scarf to kiss her neck, and when Ortus’ tongue found just the right spot she almost kicked him in the ribs. The grin he gave her in return was undeniably smug, and after that it did not take much to persuade him to wrap his free hand around her hips and hold her down, really hold her, with Magnus gripping her wrists so tight it almost hurt and his teeth and tongue on her throat and the vibration of his voice reverberating from his chest —

Afterwards, she tangled her hands in Magnus’ hair while he undid the Ninth’s trousers, and at last kissed Ortus properly, imitating the rhythm of her husband’s mouth with her own with what she knew to be perfect, maddening symmetry, a dance they had perfected over many years and which was probably unfair on the poor man, but he all but melted under their attention. Still pleasantly buzzing, it was easy to be generous and tempting to try and impress and Ortus was all too willing to be impressed. He came apart in their hands, a beautiful sigh of tension released and pretence abandoned. Abigail crooned over both of them a little, her system flushed with oxytocin and feeling warm for the first time all day, petted Ortus’ broad chest and entwining her fingers with her husband’s. Later, when they were alone, she would wrap her legs around him and let him bury himself inside her until there was nothing between them but the heat of their bodies and the sound of his breath in her ear and the deeply satisfying knowledge that whatever else, he was hers and she was his, but not now. Now, she prodded Magnus to shift until she could reach over and pull the blankets over them all, because she was cold and happy and did not want the moment to end. Ortus, for all that he was always wrapped up in seven layers of black robes, exuded heat like he was paid to do it. She snuggled up to him quite gratefully, her husband’s hands tangled in her hair, and permitted herself to fall asleep.


End file.
